We stopped by a local baker on the way home yesterday. Staring into the back of the shop while Lian ordered, the darkness hung heavy in the old space, mixed with the smell of bread. An old clock up on a faded wall, along with a chinese character or two (I was too busy looking to ask for a translation). I worry about the little things, like, how do they survive? How do they go on? How long can things remain this way, with such a sense of doom around it? Or maybe it was just me.